Day one hundred and six: regulars vs. stalkers

I've been at (insert real name here) long enough to have a nice little following of regulars. I enjoy serving familiar faces that come in from time to time, especially the ones that tip well. I like to think that it's because I've got charisma which is, if I may quote Pauly Shore in the great film Son in Law, "a special quality of leadership that captures the popular imagination and inspires allegiance and devotion."

Being charismatic has it's downside though. I seem to have made a good impression on an older gentleman who now shows up to (insert real name here) everyday to see if I'm working. At first it was harmless, just a lonely old fella who was looking for someone to talk to. Now it's gotten to the point I feel ill when I answer the phone at work and he's on the other end telling me "not to worry" and that he'll "be there soon." 


Generally he talks about London, England and I nod and smile because I have nothing to add to the conversation. He'll sit at one of my tables for hours and he smells like French Onion soup before he even orders French Onion Soup. Worst of all, he only ever tips me a dollar. 


Am I afraid for my safety? Not really. I'm sure if I found myself in a situation where I had to fight for my life I could take him out because he's old and because I've been conditioned to escape from life threatening situations courtesy of Big Bro. 


One summer Big Bro tied my legs and arms to a lawn chair and locked me in the shed. So if creep show stalker somehow manages to capture me in order to make my skin into a lamp, I'll be prepared:



I have to give credit to the people I work with, however, when he phones they say I'm not in and if he comes in unannounced the hostesses tell him my section is full and try to get rid of him. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't but they've got my back an I truly appreciate it. 

Day one hundred and five: hives?

I’ve broken out in hives three times in as many days; the first time at (insert real name here) then at the New Shop and a third time again at (insert real name here). I don’t have any known allergies so I can only assume I’m dying. 

Now I'm not a doctor per se, but I do watch a couple medical dramas -- Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice and I have recently taken to inputting symptoms into the Symptom Checker search bar on Web MD. 

I typed in "itchy arms" and the only thing that came up was that I have Down Syndrome. 

Well this is just great. I'm already stressed out as it is working two jobs now I have to deal with having Down Syndrome? I was hoping it was just a reaction to some chemical but no such luck. 

Now I'm wondering what else my parents have hidden from me. Am I adopted? Sure I bare a sticking resemblance to my brother but that can just be a coincidence. 

My rational mind says that maybe Web MD is wrong but that would be like saying not everything on the Internet is true and I refuse to believe it. 

Maybe I can start making more tips if I tell my tables if I tell them about my impediment -- use the Down Syndrome to my advantage. 

I Web MD searched hives just to be sure and although Down Syndrome is still a possible diagnosis, it seems like a little case of dermatitis is the culprit for my itchy arms. 

Day one hundred and four: surely you can't be that stupid

I had a hissy fit today. Actually, a hissy fit doesn't accurately describe my temper tantrum. It was more like a shit fit of epic proportions.


I had a complete and utter meltdown that was kind of like this:



(minus the tears...)


The catalyst of the meltdown? Someone wasn't following the Golden Rule.


Lately I've found myself really taking to heart the bad behaviour of strangers. There was a time I'd just shake my head and move on because I didn't really care what some asshole eating at (insert real name here) had to say, but now instead of letting it roll off my back, I'm absorbing that negativity.


Today's interaction went like this:


Me: Sorry to interrupt but what can I bring you to drink?


Asshole: We're in the middle of a conversation. Surely you can't be so stupid as to not figure that out.


Me: **silence and disbelief**


I walked away a little stunned. Did that guy just call me stupid? This is when I started to get mad. I swiped my card in the POS with such vigor that it snapped in half.


My temper tantrum lasted a couple more minutes and I eventually got over myself as my co-workers looked at me as if I had six heads. After I had calmed down I felt a wave of shame wash over me. I'm disappointed in myself for letting some hack get the best of me. Maybe it's because I need some time off or maybe I'm in the wrong line of work but now I'm on a mission to not let the small stuff get to me.


What's worse than my temper tantrum is that I had the perfect opportunity to drop a life from Airplane.
How often is it that people start a sentence with "surely..." even if the rest of the phrase is to call me stupid? Opportunities like that only come around once in a lifetime:

Day one hundred and three: the tax man cometh

I think, for the first time in 26 years (or however long it's been that I've had to file for income tax), I'm going to have to go to an income tax figure-outer person. 


There was a time that my mom had my taxes done by some broad... er... lady, but she's out of commission from an embolism or an aneurysm -- either way, something happened that's left the number crunching to me and I'm not so confident this time around. 


I haven't been keeping track of my tip as diligently as I should have been and now a wave of paranoia has rushed over me because I don't want to accidentally commit tax fraud and have to pay a bunch of fines or worse... end up in the clink. I've seen the Shawshank Redemption many times and as confident as I am in being able to pull off a great escape no one will ever believe I'm as much of a Rita Hayworth fan as Andy Dufresne. 


Sure jail can't be all that bad with the choreographed Michael Jackson numbers... 




Now, I'm not 100% positive but I'm pretty sure provincial and federal jails in Canada almost never have Michael Jackson's choreographer Travis Payne come out to teach some sweet dance moves a la the Cebu Provincial Detention And Rehabilitation Center (CPDRC) in the Philippines and if that's the case I'm not taking any chances with my freedom. 


So in order to get a fair shake at this income tax thing I think it's best to leave it up to the professionals. 

Day one hundred and two: 90s music dance party

I don’t know why I never thought to bring CDs to work until today but the revelation to do so has blow my mind.

I’m the only front-of-house employee kicking around in the morning so I don’t turn on the music until we’re officially open. We have the radio tuned to FAB 94.3 partly because it’s the only station that doesn’t have static and partly because it’s really good.  Normally,while I'm opening the restaurant, I listen to one of three podcasts:

• WTF with Marc Maron
• Comedy Death Ray Radio with Scott Aukerman
• Doug Loves Movies with Doug Benson

In an attempt to mix it up a bit today I went with a sweet Dollarstore CD I purchased called Maximum Edge 90s (only the hits) and so far, it's working out awesome -- so much so that I've vetoed playing hits from the 60s and 70s and thus the New Shop has been transformed into a 90s music dance party town, population: me. 

What are some of the great tunes I've been listening to you ask? 

How about the hit 90s television series Party of Five theme song by the BoDeans: 

Or a little gem we all know called Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something:




Now everyday can be a 90s dance party day.

Day one hundred and one: my feet smell.

My feet are in a perpetual state of smelling awful and that's bound to happen when one works in two restaurants, at least that's what I keep telling myself.


My feet are pretty gross to begin with. I booted off a toenail (this word grosses me out) from careless kicking whilst swimming at Rainbow Falls and then again, exactly a year later (give or take a day), I managed to destroy said toenail (gross) thanks to some brand new socks, a linoleum floor and a dining room table.


That's just my left foot.


I broke my right-index-finger-equivalent-toe when I tumbled down the stairs in a late night bathroom emergency and it still sits kinda gnarly. 


I always feel bad for the poor gal who has to deal with my feet when my girlfriends and I get pedicures. She thinks I don't see but I notice the longing looks she give the other feet, wishing she was working on them instead of the buckets of yuck attached to my legs.


My feet smell bad, and not just for a girl. My feet smell bad for a human being. This may or may not have something to do with my choice in footwear; lately I've been rocking $20 kicks from Zellers. I'm on my feet for at least six hours a day and that's only on the days I work one of my serving jobs. Most days I'm kicking around in my smelly restaurant shoes for 10 or 12 hours and all the food, drink and garbage juice I spill on my feet are bound to seep into my skin. I'm sure,in theory, I could avoid this with a proper pair of shoes but who has the time to search out a pair of shoes that don't look like orthopedic-old-people shoes that should be worn with a matching pastel pant and sweater set from Tan Jay? Not me?


Until then, it's looking like my feet will continue to smell how, what I imagine, a dead body smells or this monkey's finger:

Day ninety nine: lying to coworkers

Lying to strangers is fun but what's even more fun is lying to people I work with. Lying to people I know is more of a challenge because I'm bad at it. I get flushed and start to laugh not to mention maintaining the lie


One of the cooks at (insert real name here) quit for the second time to go up north and do some census work so it only seemed appropriate to start a rumour as to the "real" reason he was leaving -- with his permission of course. I was able to get as creative as possible since he has no plans on coming back -- I think his exact words were:

If anyone sees me walking back in at any point with a resume in my hand, please do me a favour and bludgeon me to death with the closest object at hand (or, if you are in a vehicle, accelerate rapidly into me, then back up a few times).

Rumours spread like wild fire in restaurants and it is truly amazing how gullible some people are.


I ended up telling people that the cook quit because he had one too many adult beverages with another cook one night resulting in the two fellas ending up in bed together and everything just seemed to fall into place after that. 


Let me preface this by saying that both guys knew what I was going to say and found it just as hilarious as I did and still do.




The heart wants what the heart wants.